


Dog.exe

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Collars, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Leashes, M/M, Puppy Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24833608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Connor helps the RK900 boot up a program.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor/Upgraded Connor | RK900
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	Dog.exe

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The RK900 doesn’t understand the _point_. He’s seen it all play out, of course; he’s lived with his human and outdated prototype for long enough to disengage his privacy protocols. He no longer turns his head away when Connor’s clothes come off—in fact, now the RK900 zeros in on Connor’s collarbone the second he so much as adjusts his tie. He deftly unfastens it, neither particular fast nor slow, simply methodical: this is only the preparation, although it’s enough to make the RK900’s processors whirr through a mass of algorithms too complex for any other model. True arousal is still beyond the humans’ means of artificial production, but the RK900 is incredibly adaptive and has gone above and beyond his base programming. 

It’s why he follows Connor into Hank’s bedroom. He watches Connor shed his coat with an efficient grace, letting it fall before folding it and placing it on the bed— _Hank_ ’s bed, although Connor often sprawls across it as though limpness is required for powering down. Sometimes the RK900 stays in his corner and stares for a few extra seconds before turning off himself, and other times he lets the two detectives coax him to the bed in a mess of sweat-slicked skin and semi-exposed plating. He’s learned to appreciate those nights. There are several other variants that the RK900’s observed and can’t fathom, like this, though Connor turns and asks him, “Will you join me?”

The RK900 lifts one dark brow and stares into Connor’s brown eyes—trying to gage without quite _probing_ how badly Connor wants him to. As Connor begins parting the buttons on his white undershirt, the RK900 decides the only logical choice is to collect more data. He can do that best via a hands-on approach. He stiffly nods and watches his predecessor reveal a smooth expanse of synthetic skin, dotted with a few deliberate moles: a small, unnecessary detail that makes him so much more _tantalizing._ This Connor is significantly different than the two the RK900 first trained with, the first one he broke, the three in his mind Amanda conjured up—no Connor is ever _quite_ the same. But this one is the _best_ one. There’s no rational reason for it. Connor’s moles shouldn’t make him any more or less _cute_ , and the RK900 shouldn’t care about aesthetics. But he does. A saliva-like analytical fluid forms on his tongue as Connor drags his belt from the confines of its loops. 

Connor pushes out of his pants and underwear in one simple swoop. When he rises again, he’s naked, saved for the thick socks and thin garters that hold them up below his knees. Hank seems to like that look, and the RK900, despite no data to explain it, agrees. 

Then Connor takes a step forward, and suddenly, his hands are on the RK900’s collar—the RK900 feels a rush of short-fuse protocols engaging to map, memorize, and _appreciate_ every little aspect of Connor’s touch. Connor pushes his jacket open, removes, and folds it just as neatly. 

By the time Connor’s working open his black shirt, the RK900 is fully committed to this route—he wouldn’t pull away even if Amanda’s simulation forced itself to simultaneously run and scold him with every passing second. Connor reaches his fly and dips to push his pants down, all the way until he can step out of them. The RK900 sheds his own socks—sometimes Connor and Hank make his program work a little _too_ hard, and his internal fans never seem to kick in like they should. He’ll still never sweat. Connor won’t either. But Connor seems to like kissing Hank’s damp skin in the aftermath of love-making, so there must be merit to overheating.

When they’re both naked, Connor weaves around him and fetches two collars from Hank’s nightstand. Both are for Connor, slightly different styles but both utilitarian: thick, rough, practical designs meant to keep large beasts in check. The RK900 suspects they were bought from the same place as Sumo’s. 

Maybe it should be degrading, to see even an outdated RK800 donning the collar of a common dog. Instead, the RK900 finds the sight _exhilarating_. There’s a certain elegance to the way Connor binds himself, pushing the taut faux-leather against his throat and clasping it tightly in the back—no need for room to breathe. A single silver hoop hangs from the front, ready to be grabbed. Connor politely asks, “May I?”

The RK900 nods. He wouldn’t have put it on himself. He wouldn’t let Hank do it either—Connor might trust him, but he’s still _human_. The RK900 was built to aid humans, but not to belittle himself for their entertainment. Yet he lets Connor hold the collar up to him and lock it tight. Then Connor’s gaze sweeps over him, clearly assessing—the RK900 stands broad and tall, sure that he’s perfect.

Connor cocks the sort of wriggling smile that subtly screams _deviant_. The RK900, as usual, fails to report it. Instead, he watches Connor sink down to all fours. He crawls like that—shoulders flexing and rear twitching in the most _delicious_ of ways—until he reaches the closet. He bats at the half-open door as though his fingers aren’t working. When it creaks open, he leans in, then emerges with a long strip folded in his mouth. Biting down on it, he crawls back out, looks up at the RK900, and turns the corner. 

This is the part the RK900 doesn’t understand. He certainly like seeing Connor on all fours, loves the view of Connor’s newly-installed cock swinging between his legs, especially enjoys the peek at the puckered hole between his taut cheeks, specially designed to get just as wet, hot, and tight as any Traci’s. But the collar’s an odd choice, the leash even more so, and there’s no reason to wear out their palms and knees by crawling, especially when Hank’s not even home to watch. 

Connor transmits, _“Aren’t you coming?”_

And the RK900, no longer wanting to be left out, follows. He does so on hands and knees, because he is so very intelligent and adaptable: there’s no reason he can’t flesh out this new baffling program. 

As absurd as it is, the RK900 joins Connor in the small entrance nook off the living room. Sumo’s lying down over by the couch and looks up at them, but he must not feel particularly threatened by them adopting his role, because he drops his head back onto his foreleg and resumes peacefully napping. Connor sits straight up, hands folded between his knees, leash stretching his jaw. His LED keeps flashing little slivers of yellow—a show of sheer _anticipation_ past what his delicate sensors can handle. The RK900 says, “There was no reason to strip and debase ourselves before he’s even arrived.”

Connor makes a muffled noise. Evidently, he’s so focused on his current mission that he’s left nothing for common sense, like the fact that he can’t talk around his mouthful. He answers wirelessly instead, _“He’ll enjoy seeing us ready for him, and the initial preparation helps to ensure a smooth transition into the canine program.”_

The RK900 has only smooth transitions. Extra preparation is unnecessary. But he doesn’t argue, because the handle’s twisting. 

The door opens, and Hank’s standing there, down to jeans and a sweatshirt with a grease stain on the side. Connor often likes to go out to dinner with him simply to monitor his caloric intake, but now the RK900 knows why that didn’t happen this time. He tends to only go out with Hank to the station, when Hank’s at least wearing a more fitted shirt and a jacket and has some semblance of _the law_ about him.

Hank blinks down at them. He shuts the door without really looking. Sumo grunts half a bark and keeps snoozing. 

“Connor... Nines.”

The RK900 gives no reaction to the nickname. He doesn’t return the greeting. Dogs are incapable of speaking English. Connor is often lenient with the program, but the RK900 doesn’t intend to be. 

Hank reaches out and threads his fingers through Connor’s brown hair. He brushes back, fondly petting Connor, and Connor’s lashes flutter lower, LED flickering. Hank thumbs the little curl that always comes loose from Connor’s brushed styling, then retracts that hand and transfers it to the RK900.

It lands, heavy, square on the RK900’s scalp, and immediately begins lightly scratching and ruffling through his hair. Hank hums low in his throat, “Good boy,” while the RK900 submits himself to the sudden show of affection.

Usually, that affection is given only to Connor. The RK900 has never asked for it. He’s a soldier, robust and unemotional. He tells himself all the time that he’s _not_ a deviant.

But Hank pets him, and suddenly he _understands_.

Without diagnosing the strange urge, the RK900 tilts his head back and swipes his tongue across Hank’s palm. Connor licks Hank all the time like this, and Hank seems to enjoy it. So the RK900 begins enthusiastically licking Hank’s fingers, storing and saving all the data from everywhere Hank’s been in the last twenty-four hours. That rush of information is, in itself, oddly thrilling. But Connor whines beside him and noses the RK900 out of the way, going in to nuzzle at Hank’s wet hand instead. Hank mutters under his breath, “Jesus.”

The RK900 lightly knocks Connor aside and goes in to give Hank further treatment—but this time he bypasses Hank’s hand and goes right for Hank’s crotch: he can see the bulge denoting Hank’s arousal. He opens his mouth and flattens into it, tonguing Hank’s erection through the faded denim. Hank swears louder and abruptly pushes the RK900 back by the hair. The RK900 assumes this is simply part of the protocol: Hank being _their master_ , rather than any judgment on his performance. The prominent outline of Hank’s cock would suggest it rather liked the RK900’s attention. 

Hank grabs the leash out of Connor’s mouth and rasps, “Bedroom, now.”

If the RK900 were a dog, he’d be a _good_ dog. But he ignores the order anyway, instead sitting on his haunches while Hank fumbles either end of the leash onto each of their collars. He grabs it in the middle and maneuvers around them, using that grip to guide them forward. 

The RK900 dutifully follows, fully engaged in _SubmissivePet.exe_.


End file.
